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Rated: 13+ · Fiction · Death · #2092722
This is a story I'm making. It seems sort of cliche, but please tell me what you think.
I was laying down on my bed, looking dully at the message that Abigail sent me.

“Maybe this isn’t going to work out.” the text box read. Her icon was a picture of herself and I, both of us hugging her yorkshire terrier. It looked like one of those fake-candid photos you could find with random fortune cookie messages in cursive font over them on the internet.

I sighed and turned the phone off. Tears started to leak out of my eyes, and I wiped them on the sleeve of my light pink shirt. The tears smeared on the cloth, turning it a darker color.

I turned my phone on again. The lock screen was a picture of her riding on a ferris wheel, wearing a fluffy light blue sweater while holding up her phone. I remembered that day. It was a field trip for science class. We didn’t do anything science related, so it was probably just an excuse to go to a theme park. It had been almost time for us to leave when she had excitedly grabbed my hand and dragged me to the ferris wheel.

“Come on! It’s the last one, I promise.” she said, running towards the towering metal circle. It was almost evening, and the sun glinted sideways, illuminating her blond hair flying around her face. I had laughed, stumbling as she dragged me along.

While we were waiting in line, I asked her if we had enough time to be doing this.

“Nonsense! We have plenty of time! Besides, the worst that happens is that we’re too late and we’re forced to stay here for the rest of our lives, scavenging for food from trash cans.” She giggled. The brightness of her smile rivaled the sun. We sat in one of the carriages, both of us sitting close on the same bench. She put her arm around me and started to look out one of the windows.

She flicked the glass with her finger. It made a dull ping noise. “Hah! Look! The bus is leaving! I hope the trashcan food tastes good.”

I started and looked out the window. The bus was completely still. “Ha ha, very funny.” I said drolly and rolled my eyes. Looking out the window caused the sun to pierce my eyes, so I adjusted my angle so I could use Abigail’s face to block the light.

Abigail’s normally smiling face became solemn.

I looked into her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

She seemed lost in thought for a moment, until she excitedly stood up and pointed out the window. “Look! We’re at the top of the ride! Let’s take a picture!” She grabbed my phone and typed in the password.

I tried to reach for my phone, but she was holding it up too high. “Since when did you know my password! And standing up while we’re moving is dangerous!”

She plopped back into her seat. “Well, I’m not dead yet, and shh! We’re gonna miss it!”

“At least let me take the picture.”

She sighed and handed me back my phone.

I held the phone and took a picture of her. Her face took up most of it. While I was preparing to take another one, she whipped out her phone and took one of me.

“Hey! Why did you take a picture of me while I was taking a picture of you! Now I have one with your phone in the way.” I yelled, shoving my phone into my pocket.

“Hmph, I should be saying the same thing to you! How could you take a picture of me,
when I wished to photograph your grand visage!” she said with false airs, which quickly cracked with giggles. I started to laugh too, and we continued laughing until we reached the bus.
* * * *
I stared the wall beside me. The various posters and books started to become blurry. I wiped my eyes again and started to text. “Why?” It wasn’t the most original statement, but that’s what I was thinking. I could always be honest with her.

I turned the phone off again and returned to staring blankly at the ceiling. I must have slept, as I remember waking up and seeing daylight. I picked up my phone and looked at the notifications. She hadn’t replied.

I changed my clothes and stumbled downstairs to the kitchen. The floor felt cold against my bare feet. I’d forgotten to wear socks. I picked up a box of cereal and poured it into a bowl. I stared at it. I realized that I didn’t feel very hungry, so I turned away and sat at the table, abandoning the cereal. I pulled my phone out of my pocket. Abigail still hadn’t replied. I sent her a message asking her why she hadn't replied. I was worried. She normally responded to messages immediately after I sent them, no matter what time it was.
She must really hate me. What could I do to make her like me again? I could give her flowers. That worked well enough in movies, though movies aren’t the best comparison to real life, and Abigail wasn’t fond of flowers. She was allergic. She would prefer a plate of cookies much more than a few flowers. She once said I was pretty decent at making cookies, though that might have been a lie to make me feel better. Her favorite cookies were chocolate chip, with white chocolate chips as well. I didn’t really like white chocolate, so normally we compromised and just had ordinary chocolate chip cookies.

“I’m pretty sure we have some white chocolate chips somewhere…” I muttered to myself, searching the kitchen. They were in the cupboard, next to the milk chocolate and dark chocolate chips. Bingo. I pulled them out and placed the other ingredients in a row. Eggs, flour, sugar, salt? Did cookies use salt? Probably not, I thought to myself, putting the salt back on the counter.

At the end of it, I pulled the cookies out of the oven. They were a bit undercooked and weird looking, but Abigail liked undercooked food so I supposed it was alright. I remembered when we had went to a japanese restaurant and she had ordered raw fish. I had told her that that was a food safety hazard, but she had merely laughed and brushed it off.

“I’m not dead yet!”

It was something she always said. She thought it sounded cool while I thought that it sounded reckless, but it was something she would say when I complained that she was doing something dangerous. She did dangerous things quite a lot.

I used a spatula to put the cookies on a paper plate. Some of the melted chocolate oozed out of the cookies. I picked up the plate and started to walk to her house.

While I was walking, my worries flew around my head like a tornado. Was she okay? Did her parents do anything to her? Has she found someone else she likes more than me? Who would be that other person? Are they nice to her? Will she like the cookies? Did she ever like the cookies I make? Was she just pretending to like my cookies? Is she okay now? Is she sad? Did anything happen to her? Was she just pretending to like me? Am I a good person to her? Am I a good person in general? Is she-

That was when I realized that I was barefoot. At first I thought of going home and getting shoes, but then I figured that since I was
already halfway there I could just walk the rest of the way. I just hope her parents won’t mind… I thought while looking down at myself. I just realized that my shirt was backwards. Perfectly presentable. I sighed. Her parents absolutely hated me. This would only give them one more reason for them to hate me even more.

As I was approaching her house, I could see a few weeds sticking up from her lawn. The house was large and painted black, seeming to loom over any visitors. The light was on in Abigail’s room, and the window was open. At first I thought of maybe throwing some gravel at her window, (I remembered reading something and that was supposedly romantic) but I figured that her parents would only get mad at me, and some might fall inside. Then I thought that I could throw a cookie at her window, but that would be a waste of a cookie if I missed. Instead, I straightened my shoulders and approached the front door.

The door was a muddy red color which reminded me of dried poppies. The small glass panels placed in the door were covered by thick, opaque curtains. I rang the doorbell. A cheery ding rang out, completely contrasting the foreboding feeling I had in my stomach. I heard her yorkshire terrier barking. Someone pulled the curtains aside to look at me. Abigail’s mother opened the door, using her leg to block the small dog.

Abigail’s mother forced a smile upon seeing me. She was wearing a dark green suit, with a navy blue tie. She seemed to be very well put together, with her brown hair up and her face smattered with makeup. She was probably just got home from work, or was getting ready for work. I hadn’t checked what time it was, and the light was at that confusing stage of “somewhere before or after noon, maybe.” She looked at me critically from head to toe, obviously taking note of my clumsily put together plate of cookies and my lack of shoes.

She pursed her lips together. “Ah. You’re Abigail’s…” She struggled for a word. “... friend.”

I wanted to reply to her and say, “I’m a lot more than just a ‘friend’ thank you very much,” but the words wouldn’t come. Instead my stomach felt queasy, and a small quivering “y-yeah,” escaped my lips.

Her mom took an irritated breath and stood out of the way for me, holding the collar of the frantically moving dog. I ran up the stairs to her room. The door was closed. Light softly spilled out of the crack. I took a shivery breath and knocked on the door. My stomach felt like snakes were flopping around inside of it. She didn’t reply. She didn’t open the door. She was probably waiting there. The snakes flopped around some more. I decided to open the door. What’s the worst that could happen? My hand trembled as I turned the doorknob. Why am I so scared? It’s just Abigail. For all I know, everything she did was just a joke.

I whipped the door open. I didn’t have time to worry about anything. It was Abigail, after all.
Her walls were painted pink, and there were pictures of us both taped up on the walls. Luckily for me, she hadn’t torn any of them down. I smiled, until I looked down.

There Abigail was, her normally smiling face instead containing an expression of pure shock. A knife was jammed into her chest, hilt up. Blood oozed onto her pink fluffy carpet.

Is she alive? Is she okay? She’s alive right? I ran over to her and dropped to my knees. I felt faint. I put my hand down to steady myself, and I felt a folded piece of paper. I picked it up, but my hands were shaking and it fell from my grasp.

Abigail was dead. She killed herself.
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